When Running Loves You Back

Running is my teacher. She is patient and forgiving, but also relentless and rigorously honest. She welcomes me back, even after a long absence, but she never forgives snow days, and she never gives extra credit. Her grades are hard to earn, but hard lessons have a way of rooting  more deeply than the easy ones do. 

I love to run long distances. Love it. Love. It. Two miles? Four miles? Six miles? Yeah, they can feel like work sometimes. Those routine runs that you squeeze in before dawn or over lunch or after work, just to keep up your conditioning. The ones where you have one eye on your watch because you're shooting for the right training pace, or you're checking your cadence or you have a time goal to hit... they can be a chore some days. 

But the long ones... oh the Long Slow pleasure of ten or sixteen or twenty miles on a Saturday morning... whether you're watching the fog burning off the hills, or dodging the bread trucks as they make their deliveries... The initial warm up as your heart begins to race, then calm itself to find its steady rhythm. The mindful attention to every curve and bend, each hill and rise making your eyes widen with anticipation or narrow with delight. The fire deep inside that flares or smolders, fueling muscles and nerves as you stride silently along the road, feeling texture and temperature through your feet, your hands, your face. And ultimately comes the moment you disappear. You are no longer breathing; you are breath. No pain. No will. No thought. You are pure presence. You are no longer running. You simply are.

Once you've been there, you want to go back. You dream about it. It's a holy place. But the chances to get there are rare. And they don't come cheap.

It takes time. 

Lots of time. You have to invest the hours. You have to earn the miles. You don't run twenty-six point six just because you want to. You have to earn it. You have to run eighteen first. And fifteen. And ten. Not just once, but many times. 

Running rewards respect... Disrespect her and she will humble you. With pain. With setbacks. With injuries. You're going to doubt yourself. You don't have the strength. You don't have the legs. Too slow. Too fat. Too far behind. Your heart will break along the way. It will break. And when that happens, you have to learn to keep running.

You have to learn to run with a broken heart.

And that takes trust.

You have to trust yourself. You will get stronger. You will. Every step will make you stronger. Believe it. Your heart will learn to beat again. Injured joints will mend. Burning lungs will clear. They will. You have to trust that. You have no choice. You can trust, or you can quit. Because only your trust will keep you out there on the road. In the weight room. In the whirlpool. Going wherever you have to go, doing whatever you have to do to earn HER trust. 

She has to learn to trust you, too. Because you see, she is more than a teacher. She has secrets you can only guess at... and stories you've never heard before. She will show you things inside yourself that you didn't know were there. And she will give you parts of herself that you never imagined could exist. She will tease you, amuse you, frustrate you, lead you on, and shut you down. And one day, if you are faithful and lucky, she will open her arms, and give you the most sacred part of herself.

In my life, running and I have gone to heaven together. But always on her terms. She has no use for my good intentions or heartfelt desire. She doesn't care about what I've written or the books I've read. She needs to know me, and needs me to know her. She needs to know that I will be there. That I will give her my time. That I will honor her trust.

Only then will she open her arms to me and welcome me into her heart. 

There is a place out there on the road. Marathoners call it "The Wall." Physiologists will tell you that it's the place where your glycogen stores are exhausted and there is nothing left in the tank for the engine of your body to use for fuel. You hit the wall and you crash. You bonk. You fail. Nothing but will, training, and insanity can get you past The Wall. 

But if you are lucky, she will be there waiting for you. She will let you keep going. You don't earn those miles. . Those are the ones she gives you. They come from her heart.

That's when you've learned your lessons. That's when running loves you back.

To See and Be Seen

I've been contemplating this guy for a few days now. In the waning days of winter, I used an old lion for my profile picture on Facebook. But with the first day of spring, I wanted to make a change. I have always identified with these beautiful animals. Their strength. Their ferocious loyalty. When you grow up big and maybe a little too sensitive for your own good, you don't really connect with the cheetahs and the rabbits. So you can either resent the "big ape" thing, or else embrace it and make the best of what you have. I was never very good at chest pounding or swatting fighter planes out of the sky, but the dark browed, broad shouldered scowl came in handy on the subway a couple of nights. It's good to have it in the repertoire when you need it.

But ferocity isn't what attracted me to Old Silverback here. It was his eyes. They seemed to see. As much as I would love to be the kind of guy who sweeps the pretty girl off her feet and carries her to the top of the Empire State building, I think I'd rather be one who can look at her the way this fellow is looking. To see. To regard. To accept. To respect.

He isn't seeing himself in her. His failures. His fears. Those aren't eyes that imagine and project. They are eyes that embrace and perceive. He isn't afraid to know the truth. He isn't afraid to see what's really there.

Maybe that is because he isn't afraid to be seen. When I consider those strange, yet familiar eyes, I see open windows that let the truth pass through in both directions. He is able to know, because he is willing to be known. His strength is his defenselessness. 

He seems like the kind of guy who isn't afraid to take the time to get to know you. Or to give you all the time you need to do the same thing.

I want to be that kind of an ape. One who can look without staring. Who can see without judging. Who regards each detail with curiosity and reverence, and treats your love as a sacred trust, a holy exchange of personhoods.

Too often, instead of a gorilla I have been a chattering carnival monkey. Grabbing and snatching. Clinging to scraps and squirrreling them away as if I were certain that the supply could never last. Too many times, I have blurted and blundered my way out of love with impatience. "Take this," I cry. "Take me. All of me. Now. Today." As if love were a desperate race against time. 

But the monkey isn't pressed for time. He is haunted by fear. "Take me or leave me," he cries, " But for god's sake, get it over with. Don't make me wait for the rejection that I know is coming anyway." He thinks he's being brave, stripping naked for you to see. But really, he is a coward. He doesn't have the courage to wait for you to undress him yourself.

So I chose this beautiful old Mountain Gorilla to be my spirit guide for the spring. I hope he teaches me to see and be seen. I want to learn his courage and confidence. I want to learn his quiet strength and his tender patience. 

When I contemplate those eyes, I see... I suppose the word I'm looking for is "Presence." He isn't thinking about what's next. He isn't a million miles away. When Old Silverback looks at you, he says, "I am here with you. I see you. See me." 

If that isn't love, what is?

Links in a Broken Chain

I'm trying so hard to gather all these thoughts into paragraphs. But  real life tragedy is much more difficult to organize than the literary kind.

An addict isn't any more weak or wicked or villainous or sinful than a sober person. An addict is just someone who hurts, and is willing to try anything to create some space between their heart and the pain.

I don't believe that great artists necessarily become addicts because of their genius or their capacity for deep feeling. But I do think people who feel deeply often turn to art as a way to try and make sense of the feelings that the world has no other place for. And addicts feel both joy and pain to an unbearable degree.

Stations of the Cross, #9 Jesus Falls a Third Time
John Ilg

It is both inexcusably naive and terribly cruel to sit in judgement of another's inability to stand up under the weight of their own cross. Or to judge their cross based on the weight of your own.

Suffering is not currency. There are no mitigating circumstances that make a celebrity's pain worth less than a homeless junkie's. And no, you would not trade a day of  your life for Philip Seymour Hoffman's.

The difference between hiding inside a gallon of ice cream or a fifth of bourbon or a 60 hour work week or a carton of Marlboros or a needle full of smack is only one of degree. It's just that you don't find dead food junkies with a needle full of Krispy Kremes hanging out of their arm.

Accepting that you are powerless is not the same thing as admitting you are a victim. There's a reason there are TWELVE steps to sobriety, not just one.

Addicts have children. They have parents. Friends. Lovers. Mentors. Neighbors. Fans. And while death is the end of an addict's suffering, it is the beginning of a whole new chapter of pain for the ones left behind.

It is very hard not to hate the people we love, for not loving themselves more.

Death ends a life, but it does not end a relationship, which struggles on in the survivor's mind toward some resolution which it may never find. ~ Robert Anderson

The only way for tragedy to have any meaning is if we make it a source of courage, of compassion, of inspiration. Watching "Capote" made me want to be a better actor. I need learning and writing about the death of this blessed but unhappy man to make me a better friend, son, lover, and brother.

Linda, Willy, Biff
New York Daily News

I am sad that I won't get a chance to see your Willy Loman, or your Torvold, or your Lear. I am sad that I won't ever get to shake your hand and thank you for the hours I spent in dark cinemas, my jaw slack with amazement at your work.  I am sad that your life was so very full of suffering. But deep down, I'm glad that you are finally free from the pain. 

If I seem a bit confused and scattered about my feelings, it may be because deep, deep down, there is a secret part of me that envies your freedom just a little bit... And that scares the living shit out of me.

I am alive. And you are dead. And that doesn't say a damn thing about you or about me. All I know is that the only reason I'm not in that hole with you is that God sent me people who loved me and showed me that my life was worth loving. And before I throw my little handful of dirt onto the box and turn back toward the world that tore your heart apart... I just want you to know that your struggle makes me want to live even more... to love even more... and to be a source of the kind of hope and courage that you, my brother, were never able to find. Just in case the next PSH crosses my path one of these days...

Peace,

Pennsy

To Be a Light, Not A Shadow

A New Voyage

Here are the money quotes from one of the all-time good news/bad news letters I've ever received.

After reviewing all of the information carefully, we have decided that your health has improved since we last reviewed your case and you are now able to work... We realize that your condition prevents you from doing any of your past work, but it does not prevent you from doing work which is less demanding... You are no longer disabled... your last payment will be for 10/2013.

Well, then. Here's a new adventure for Pennsy. Thanks to my Social Security Disability Insurance, I was able to continue to have an income throughout my recovery from cancer. I have been able to devote myself and my energy to learning a new profession, and to building my body far beyond the strength and endurance I ever knew as a young man. During my recent mental health crisis and separation from my wife, SSDI has been the only thing keeping me off of the charity roles. I would have had no medical insurance this summer without it. I am grateful. But in a few weeks, that part of my life will come to an end.

The good news: As of today, I am officially no longer "Disabled." Many people never live to say that. My doctors report that I am strong enough to return to full time work. I've been to enough funerals this year to know how lucky I am to hear those words, too. I have the opportunity to begin a new voyage, and I have two months grace to get under weigh.

The bad news: I have yet to prove that I can actually work a full time job without physical or mental collapse. And I have 8 weeks to convince somebody (and myself) that I can be a productive and valuable employee who is worth at least the money I've been getting from SSDI for the past three years. The people who know me best, know only too well how very far and hard I can fall.

My initial response to the news was powerful and violent. Was this the last straw? Had life finally broken my heart? Was it time to give in and let the depression win? I though long and hard about what would happen to me when there was no more money. As it has done so many times before, my depression whispered "suicide" in my ear. For a while, it seemed like the best solution; the only solution; but the thought of Mrs P discovering me after days of silence and the phone call she would have to make to my mother changed my mind. They don't deserve that. Both have fought too hard and for too many years to keep me alive through both cancer and mental illness. And I thought of the kids at the Y. The kids I run with. the people in the classes I teach. Who would have to explain to them that Mr. Bob had done such a thing? What about the people who believed in me at the Y when any other employer would have been glad to be rid of me? I thought of the Strong Eight: the women who fought cancer beside me as we laid the foundation for the LIVESTRONG at the YMCA program together, two summers ago. We trusted one another with our hearts. How could I do this thing that would almost certainly break theirs?

And if there were enough people in my life who cared that much... people who mattered that much to me... surely there was a reason for me to keep on fighting for my life.

You know who you are. I woke up Saturday morning because of your love. It's as simple as that.

Yesterday, on Facebook, after a long, long sleep, I posted "I finally have the will. Lord, show me the way." And that is my prayer. God made me wait a long time, but I at last have a reason to live. I will be a light in this world, not a shadow. I don't know how I'll be making money on November 1. But I know what I'll be doing.

Somehow, somewhere, I'll be helping people to fight for their lives, as I must do, as we all must. "The ones who give up... they all die," the doctor said. Physiology and personal loss be damned. I'm not giving up on my people... or on myself.

I'm going to work. That's my next voyage.

Peace,
Pennsy

Love: The Glorious Maybe

In a month, I will be 53 years old. And in many ways, it feels like I'm starting my life over from scratch. I'm full of questions.

How much money can I save before I'm 65? 70? Will it matter?

Am I ever going to have a full time job again?

What other changes am I going to have to make in order to live below my means?

Am I ever going to have a wife again?

Will I ever make love?

And just how does a post-middle aged gray-beard meet women who are single, sane, and not young enough to be his daughters?

Will my ability to learn and remember ever come back?

Will my energy?

Will my cancer?

Will my faith?

Worries? I don't think of them as worries. They don't keep me up at night. They don't make me anxious or angry or afraid. But these questions... they are on my mind. I know a man who spent weeks after his divorce sleeping with a loaded rifle next to his bed. He was waiting to work up the courage to put the barrel in his mouth. Thankfully, he never did, and before long, he met and married the love of his life. I know another, well into his 70s now, who still refers to his ex as "my wife." He has no rifle, but he has a bottle and a pack of cigarettes and has been using them both like a gun for years. I am not there. And I'm not going there. That's a cliff whose crumbling edge I have explored quite enough in my life, thanks. Whatever life has in store for me, I intend to be around to drink it it.

They are not worries... more like puzzles. Like the Rubic's Cube that used to be on coffee tables or the little wooden triangle with the golf tees that you try to solve before they bring you your dinner at Cracker Barrel, these questions occupy my mind from time to time, then I put them down and move on to whatever is next in the present.

My shrink calls it mindfulness. It's being aware of what's happening now, acknowledging the difference between what's real, and what's only in my head. I read one of those Facebook pearls last night that hit home: "Worry is a waste of imagination." It's true. If God is our role model... if our goal is to imitate our Creator, then worry is misuse of the most important creative tool we have. Even the dullest of us is blessed with imagination. using it with love may be our most important goal.

The truth is, we can not help but see possibilities in our world. It seems to me that the trick is looking for possibilities for love rather than fear. God did not create us out of fear, but out of love. Our universe is not a hiding place, it is a work of art by the great Artist. My life can be a tragedy, a comedy; an epic poem or a joyful song. It all depends on how I choose to apply my imagination, the glorious ability to see more than what is here and now.

It isn't about turning my back on reality. It's more like seeing things as they really are, then looking deeper for the loving God who set them in motion. It's asking the What If questions that lead toward love.

What if I stay strong and excited enough to keep working for the rest of my life?

What if I can simplify my life so money doesn't matter quite so much?

What if I learn to live at peace with myself, so I can be a more complete part of my next relationship?

What opportunities will my health and my history offer me for service and inspiration to others?

How much stronger will my faith be when I have passed through this dark valley?

It isn't just changing the words... it's changing the intention. I intend to live. To love. To stay sane. To serve God.

There are a lot of circumstances in life that I can't do a thing about. The way I treat life isn't one of them.

How many times have I wished for one more chance in the last 53 years? Good news... I just got it. They say youth is wasted on the young. "If only I had known then what I know now." OK, life, old chum... now I know. I may never be young again, but I can look at you through young eyes. My heart will never be unbroken; the scars will heal, but never disappear; but that doesn't mean I can't love with all the passion of my youth. The years are slowly wearing down my joints and muscles and synapses, but I can fight them every step of the way by keeping strong and fit and active.

Some people respond to tragedy by dying prematurely, then waiting for their body to catch up. I choose another path. I'm going to live every second I have left, seeing what is, and imagining what could be, always trying to see life the way a loving Artist sees it.

We can focus our eyes on impossibilities, or possibilities. It's our choice. This morning, I'm choosing life. Love. The glorious Maybe. What if God really does have more in mind for me than I can possibly ask or imagine?

Peace,
Bob